


The history of me is incomplete

by itemfinder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:31:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itemfinder/pseuds/itemfinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" He'd tried explaining it once, a long time ago: it felt like something was missing, right <i>here</i> "</p>
            </blockquote>





	The history of me is incomplete

He'd tried explaining it once, a long time ago: it felt like something was missing, right _here_ (a fist to his chest, tightly clenched and solemn), something that had never been there before, something that he couldn't actually describe, but was more important than anything and belonged where it wasn't yet and needed to come back for the first time. It felt like a pull toward somewhere he'd never been and couldn't go right now — but needed to, needed to like he needed to breathe, except he couldn't figure out how to get there or even where "there" was. It felt like no matter what he did, or felt, or thought, it was never fully complete, always falling short of what it should be, and he didn't know why, he just knew it was true.

He was nearly in tears by the time he finished, which wasn't helped by his brother shaking his head with a sigh (his sister shaking her head with a grin) and saying he was too small to be so serious and too big to be so stupid.

He didn't talk about it, after that, not to anyone. He didn't talk about how his heart felt like it was too strong for his chest, like it was meant to be working at half its pace or for twice his size. He didn't talk about how his mind felt like it was always in overdrive and his senses like they were stronger and more than they ought to be. He threw himself into living and tried to ignore the lack by noticing the presence.

And for a time, it worked. It worked as well as anything did, at least: it worked halfway. He found a way to be useful, to calm his heart by healing others — protecting others. And when his mind threatened to overwhelm him, he found a way to quiet it, forcefully, with a solution not dissimilar to others he made with pipettes and stirring rods; a solution which lasted just as long as he could keep his brother from noticing. It wasn't an actual answer, but most days it was enough. It was enough to be able to escape, retreat, ignore the world and its glaring obviousness. Enough to wake up every morning knowing that he was devoting himself to a cause greater than himself, putting his efforts toward _a_ use, even if it wasn't the proper one, could never be the proper one — he had no idea what the proper one was.

Before long, though, the pendulum swung the other direction. He protected too well and without protection of his own, and ended up damaged, damaged enough that everything felt muffled and dull. He found a better solution, one still man-made but a puzzle to unravel and keep his mind active rather than a means of shutting it down. His sister (his brother) was worried and concerned and thought he could do better, but half was as much as he'd ever managed and it hardly seemed right to assume he needed more. He felt alone, adrift, apart, and exactly as he always had.

Until one day, it happened. It wasn't a different day. It started out exactly the same as its yesterday, and that yesterday's yesterday. The sun rose and he went about his life, his half of a true life, not realizing that it was the day when he would finally find what was missing. It was nothing like he imagined it to be — it didn't take his breath away or come with a bright flash of light and the sound of trumpets; it was absolutely the single most important moment of his life; it wasn't remarkable, except in how it made everything before it unremarkable — and it was perfect. He looked into his eyes, and he looked into his eyes, and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were finally two where they had always been one and one, and neither could imagine ever being anything but together, just as before they could only imagine being alone.

He was finally whole, in heart and in mind and in spirit.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=56737636) (slightly modified and cleaned up from the version posted there):  
> "Yes, I adore magical realism, how did you know?  
> Sherlock and John are literaly one soul in two bodies.
> 
> they can function each on their own, but they can't really live if they aren't together. that's why Sherlock was doing cocaine and John was depressed after returning from Afganistan. and they love each other and have sex because that's the closest they are ever going to get to being one complete person."
> 
> Title is from "[Unfinished](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7Re5Kz8Q_w)" by the Barenaked Ladies.


End file.
